


Eden's Bitter Apples

by 1wk



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Touch-Starved, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22530478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1wk/pseuds/1wk
Summary: The Exarch can pretend he's not alone.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 49





	Eden's Bitter Apples

In all the years of his long life—all the sorrows and regrets and bittersweets—this was, perhaps, the worst thing ever to happen to him.

The Exarch paced, rolling and worrying the smooth hem of his sleeve between his fingers like a charm. He’d spent the better part of an hour like this, after he’d fled from the judgmental gaze of his scrying mirror into the privacy of his own sealed chambers. Standing in the study, it was at once impossible to stare into the mirror’s now-blank surface, and torture not to. Better to chase himself in circles around his own bedchamber, where the faint luminescence of the crystal, hidden behind the thick curtains covering the room, was too gentle to fully illuminate his shame.

His guilt, his imagination, pursued him with every step. He kept rubbing his eyes, as if his thoughts were just after-images of light that he might chase away with enough persistence. For the ten thousandth time, he raked his hands through his tousled hair, each attempt at soothing stimulation no more helpful than the last. He felt warm. He could feel the flush in his cheeks.

He couldn’t stop thinking about—

Oh, gods, what was wrong with him?

Raha didn’t mean to tumble into his bed, but he couldn’t stop himself; a bird could only keep itself aloft so long before the inexorable force of gravity compelled it to land. He could feel the weight of her fluttering eyelashes pulling down on him like a stone.

Facedown, with his face pressed into the dark of his pillow, he could almost forget himself. The world was reduced to his base, miserable thoughts. The phantom sensations conjured by his imagination. The way her brow furrowed with want, replayed over and over again.

None of this was meant to happen. Tonight wasn’t the first time he’d turned his mirror on her, accompanied by the same slick guilt in the pit of his stomach as always. He took comfort in watching her drift off to sleep, the tension and intensity and black clouds slowly vanishing from her face, replaced by a rare serenity. He longed to see her happy, even if he dared not hope she might ever look at him the same way. But watching the quiet peace as she fell asleep, he could pretend.

It was selfish and invasive. It was _wrong_. Yet he couldn’t stop himself.

Tonight was not what he had intended. The moment he’d realized what he was seeing, Raha had panicked, severing the connection with the scrying mirror and letting the image of the Warrior of Light bleed away into blank blue crystal. But those uncertain seconds before he’d realized—those were what haunted him now.

His despairing whine was muffled by the pillow, sparing him from the sound of his own voice, at least. It hardly mattered, when he doubted he could be any more soaked with shame than he already was. The fabric of the sheets strained and yielded beneath his fingers as they dug for something to hold onto, for a warmth that wasn’t there.

Her black hair spilled across the bed, pooled and twisted beneath her head where she had arched her neck in pleasure. Her ears were bent gently, folded into the mess of hair and fabric. A few strands clung to her face, unnoticed. Her lips were parted, heaving quiet breaths. Raha could see all of it, even now.

He could trace the long line of her neck in his mind, the way it curved down into her strong shoulders and sharp collarbones. He could kiss along the upturned edge of her jaw, and feel her heartbeat in her throat, quick and constant. She tasted like smoke and sour sweat, this figment of her. He could almost taste the salt on his tongue. His face burned.

He had looked away, still familiar with some measure of shame and self-control, as she’d disrobed hours before. She had changed into a loose shirt with a hem that fell below her hips. He had actually felt relief at the shapeless lines of the fabric, that he might go a few minutes unreminded of the curve of her hips or breadth of her shoulders. What a fool he was.

Now, he could watch her again and again, unexpectedly tugging that loose fabric up to her breasts, exposing a constellation of secret spots and freckles scattered across her gray skin. He longed to memorize them, to count each with his lips, but already he could barely hold those precious details in his mind. The subtle details were eclipsed by the desire that choked his throat at even the vaguest shape of her memory. She cupped one small breast in her palm, the soft flesh giving way beneath her rough fingers. Did she know what it was like to be touched gently?

The question, unanswerable and haunting, was agony. His breath caught in his throat with a shudder as he imagined the smooth feeling of her skin against his own, the weight of her hands and solidity of her shape. His own hand slipped beneath the collar of his robes. Her fingers, long and deft, trailing along the skin of his still-flesh shoulder, wrapping around his supple throat. The moan he let out reverberated through his palm. He twisted against the bed, letting his robe tangle in the sheets. The unexpected taut pull of fabric might have been the tug of her hand. He shivered.

Had Raha ever touched her even once, all those years ago? He hadn’t spared it a single thought over the past century apart, but it suddenly seemed the most important thing in the world. He couldn’t remember. The uncertainty burned through him like a fallen coal, working its painful way to the bottom of his stomach.

He could see the edge of her ribcage pressed against her skin, waxing and waning as her lean stomach rose and fell with her breathing. The softness was an illusion, he knew: he’d seen the way her body twisted in a high jump, and the raw strength it required. If Raha had his way—oh, if this weren’t only a dream—he would follow the seam of her muscles with his mouth, past the dip of her navel. He would skirt the jutting bones of her hips, and she would shudder underneath him, warm and firm and slick with beaded sweat. Those long fingers would tangle in his hair (his own fingernails dug into his scalp, electrifying), seizing him by the nape of his neck and tightening with need.

Raha knew the feeling of need all too well. The longing was an ache he carried every day, a bruise that colored him down to the bones. On his darker days, he wondered: all those years ago, when he first shut himself in the Tower—if he had known then how badly it would hurt to be alone, would he still have done it? After a thousand lonely nights like this one, left with only the comfort of what remained of his own hands, he still had no answer.

But to be needed? Oh, the thought made him dizzy.

Still pressed against the sheets, his crystal hand clinging to a fistful of pillow, Raha drew one leg forward to hike up the skirt of his robes. A wordless murmur spilled unbidden from his throat as his fingers slid between his folds, already wet and agonizingly sensitive. As he slipped two fingers inside—three, upon second thought—his hips jerked with a shudder that ran all the way up his spine, until his shoulders were pressed against his jaw. His ears pressed back against his head. The pleasure was devastating.

The rhythm of his hand and hips was slow at first, but it seemed only moments before he was swept away by his fantasies. He tried to imagine the sound of her voice, thick and out of breath; he wondered what small, secret sounds she would make, in the most intimate of moments. Raha thought of her lips shaping the sound of his name, and his mouth went dry.

His breaths came quicker now, shaky and just short of a whine. His thoughts were suddenly sharp and painful, shards of glass that left him bleeding even as he gripped them tighter. Her thigh, powerful and hot with desire, draped over his shoulder. Her wiry hair pressed against his nose, filling it with the dark, rich smell of sex and sweat. His tongue, deep—

He clenched hard even as his fingers continued moving in and out, quick and desperate as he rocked down against his hand. He bit down against the pillow to stifle his moan, but not well enough; it echoed through the dim crystal chamber, repeating the weak, breathless sound of his voice back to him. Arching and thrashing against the blankets, he lost himself in the need for more—more pressure, more heat, more touch, something that would blur the line between his hand and his imagination enough for him to feel, however briefly, satisfied.

The climax carried him, hungry and helpless, for what felt like an aeon; long enough that his regret and shame began to pool before the contractions of pleasure had even begun to slow. He was left panting, spent, and empty.

The Exarch was alone. The only warmth on his skin was his own breath, wet against the pillow, and the shame still burning in his cheeks. As his own breathing slowly quieted, there was no sound in the chamber at all.

And still, when he squeezed his eyes shut, her face remained.

**Author's Note:**

> [More info on my WoL](https://szet.carrd.co/#fic) for the curious. Eventually part of a longer series.


End file.
